


Sacred Rites

by mevima



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, Cliffhanger, M/M, Other, Sexual Tension, Spanking, non-sexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima
Summary: It isn't that it's unusual to see a man in tight leather pants, not in this place, with its couches and beds and prominent tie-points all spread around the dimly lit room for easy use. It's not even unusual to see them with a pretty piece turned over their knee. Par for the course, really, and Crowley would normally take a moment to enjoy the sight and the sound, the raw sensuality of it all, before moving on to his own pursuits.No, what stops him in his tracks, fumbling his glasses off the better to see as his mind goes suddenly, utterly blank, is that the man in the leather pants – who is currently sliding a strong, precise palm across a bared ass – isAzira-fucking-phale.





	Sacred Rites

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to [stellacartography](http://stellacartography.tumblr.com) for beta, ideas, and encouragement! I could not have finished without you!

It isn't that it's unusual to see a man in tight leather pants, not in this place, with its couches and beds and prominent tie-points all spread around the dimly lit room for easy use. It's not even unusual to see them with a pretty piece turned over their knee. Par for the course, really, and Crowley would normally take a moment to enjoy the sight and the sound, the raw sensuality of it all, before moving on to his own pursuits.

No, what stops him in his tracks, fumbling his glasses off the better to see as his mind goes suddenly, utterly blank, is that the man in the leather pants – who is currently sliding a strong, precise palm across a bared ass – is _Azira-fucking-phale_. Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality, prissy, pompous, innocent bookseller – apparently, not so innocent, as he raises his hand to bring it down with a sharp snap, making the piece sprawled across his lap cry out.

Crowley only feels his heart start beating again when there's a knowing chuckle behind him. "Never seen the Priest at work, sweets? He is quite the artiste, you're in for a treat."

"That's – " He blinks deliberately, doesn't bother turning to look at the old queen leaning against the dry-bar next to him. "_That's_ the Priest?" Crowley has heard of him, of course. He's practically a legend with this crowd: taking a partner every now and again for a scene and making it _perfect_ every time. Every dom wants to be him, every sub wants to be the exception to his one-time-only rule. But Crowley's not really paid heed or wondered about his identity until – 

"Beautiful, isn't he?" The man clicks his tongue, settling his glass down on the bar with a dissonant clunk. "Jazz is so lucky he was here tonight. They needed a distraction."

"Huh." Crowley's brain is still stuttering in short hitches, trying to align his idea of who Aziraphale is with the reality in front of him. White shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows show off Aziraphale's strong forearms as he slides proprietary hands over the human's body. His expression is attentive, focused, but distant; all things Crowley has seen in turn in the past, but never quite like this. Never powerful, never _commanding_, never this vision of sex and fulfillment.

After a beat of silence, the man shrugs and leaves Crowley to his staring, heading to try his luck with the few other people mingling at the club tonight.

Crowley only has eyes for the angel. The _Priest_, truly, and he lives up to his name, every ounce of his attention focused on the penitent, delivering punishment and atonement with the same blessed hand.

Except Aziraphale's attention is torn, now; he looks up and around as he caresses the bright red bottom under his palm, a little frown forming between his brows. His gaze settles unerringly on Crowley, and he – shrinks? No, just the opposite: he hunches protectively over the fragile being in his lap, as if shielding them. Aziraphale only holds Crowley's gaze for one searing moment before he turns away again, murmuring encouragement to the human, who has begun to tremble.

It's fascinating. It's like nothing Crowley has ever imagined, and he's drawn helplessly closer until he settles into a nearby chair, glass tumbler forgotten in a dangling hand. Aziraphale watches him out of the corner of his eye, something wary and flinty in the cant of his lips, but he refuses to break the scene. Crowley can hear him clearly from this distance, hear him murmuring how good, how patient, how beautiful the human is as they suffer.

He shivers, and Aziraphale catches the motion with a flick of his eyes.

Crowley sits back, forcing a casual pose, and settles in to watch.

Aziraphale relaxes when Crowley makes it obvious that he isn't going to interfere. He gently massages the forming bruises, and then lays into the sub without warning, making them yelp and writhe and, finally, as the blows rain down, scream. Crowley shifts in his seat and bites his thumb, shamelessly aroused by the angel's perfect control. Somehow, Aziraphale knows the exact time to stop, to rest his broad palm across their throbbing ass and flood them with kind words. They whimper, a tear dripping off their chin, and Aziraphale shushes them, smoothing slow circles with his fingertips.

His eyes meet Crowley's again, less warning and more curiosity this time, as he reaches for a small bottle among the items on a nearby end table. Precise fingers smear a soothing clear gel across the human's skin, and they sigh, going lax. Messy with tears and sweat, they press their face against Aziraphale's thigh, and he hums, sliding his free hand through their short, pink hair.

"That's it, my dear, the worst is over. You did wonderfully, I am so impressed with you." Aziraphale sounds absolutely genuine, honest love and fondness suffusing the praise he lays out like a balm, just as effective as the lotion and his gentle hands.

Now when Crowley fidgets, it's for a different reason. Those words strike a craving he didn't know existed, yearning to hear them whispered in his ear when he's strung out and exhausted. And that thought hurts in its impossibility – just _imagine_ someone soothing a demon! – so he shoves it back to the Heaven it came from. He leers, over-the-top obscene, at the pretty piece that Aziraphale is encouraging to sit up and curl into his arms, and Aziraphale shoots him a look that is no less than piercing.

"How do you feel, Jazz, darling?"

"Mmm. Fuzzy. Ow." They giggle a little, high and giddy, voice a soft tenor, and again bury their face, this time into Aziraphale's shirt. "That felt..." they mumble, barely audible, and fail to finish their sentence.

"Divine?" Crowley offers, though it's a gross infraction against protocol. Performing a scene in public may be an invitation to watch politely, but it is not done to interrupt such things, as he very well knows.

Aziraphale stiffens in the act of bringing a glass of water to their lips, glaring sharply over the human's shoulder as he pulls them in closer, hands moving soothingly over their plush back and thighs. That look is a stiff command brimming with the knowledge that Aziraphale _will be obeyed_: chin lifted, mouth quirked in a disapproving angle that threatens dire consequences.

Crowley suddenly has an inkling of what Aziraphale's disobedient subs may feel when that look is turned on them. He breathes out hard, briefly wondering if those promised consequences would actually apply to him, and whether they'd involve leather and spanking too...

He shakes his head, falls back into the comfortable chair, and salutes Aziraphale with his drink, signalling his surrender.

The human drifts in Aziraphale's arms for some time, happy to be quiet and held and whispered to, around the ache of their bruised flesh. Aziraphale ignores Crowley completely, which suits the demon for now; Crowley just watches, sipping at what was once Coke and is now something decidedly more alcoholic, wondering how he could have missed this side of the angel. It makes some sort of twisted sense, hedonist that he is, that he would find some way around the ‘sin' aspect here, but the stories Crowley has heard about his alter-ego, the Priest... he would never have imagined Aziraphale indulging in such depravity.

Not that there's anything wrong with depravity, of course.

Eventually, the human blinks to wakefulness, and a shy smile peeks out. Aziraphale allows them to press a soft kiss to his cheek, and he smiles down at them beatifically. "All right, my dear?"

They sigh. "I'm great." Then their face turns imploring, and they squirm a bit in Aziraphale's lap. "Are you... please can we do this again." It comes out in a rush, not truly a question, something they know the answer to but have to ask.

Aziraphale is already shaking his head gently. "You know that won't happen, Jazz, even if you are a lovely sweet thing." He helps them to their feet and wraps a blanket around their naked body, giving them a perfectly chaste hug to top it off. "You will find someone very soon who gives you exactly what you need. I promise."

Crowley blinks as the edge of the blessing washes over him and he knows Aziraphale's words will come true. It has the feel of a ritual behind it. No wonder the Priest is in such demand, if he leaves people with a miracle to linger afterwards. He wonders if Heaven would approve.

There's no rush to the close of the scene; Aziraphale clearly wants to make sure the human is taken care of before he sets them free. They seem perfectly happy to dress and leave, though, a contentment settled into their glowing, dusky skin that Crowley is sure wasn't there before Aziraphale started on them.

He watches Aziraphale sit back down after seeing the human off. It's almost a relief to see him prim and upright again, hands folded neatly in his lap, even if he still is wearing only those damnable leather pants and a loose button-down shirt.

"Well, that was a thing," Crowley says.

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hisses back, quiet under the soft background music. My, but he is prickly about this.

Crowley raises an expressive eyebrow at the hostility and sets his empty glass aside. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

"If you followed me to this place – if you think I will let you – " Aziraphale's lips thin into a flat line, and somehow he sits up even straighter, stern and flustered. "You _will not_ ruin this."

"Ruin what, exactly, your hanky-panky with the humans?"

Oh, that was a mistake. Aziraphale's eyes _blaze_ and he spits out, "If you dare to call what I do here _hanky-panky_ ever again, I shall _discorporate you_."

Crowley believes him.

He holds his hands up, purposefully unthreatening. "What would you call it then, angel?"

Feathers soothed a little, Aziraphale sighs and fusses with his sleeves. "Therapy. Oh, don't look at me like that, I know perfectly well that it's not traditional, but there are so many lost people here who could do very much with... well." He gestures loosely around the dim room. "What I can offer."

"What you can offer," Crowley repeats in disbelief. Not disbelief, exactly, as he's just seen it happen, but... is Aziraphale really justifying _spanking someone_ as _therapy?_ "You're blessing them. Isn't that cheating? You could just skip to the blessing, you know, no need to find a loophole."

"It's not a – " Aziraphale huffs. "It's not at all the same. These people need something real, something tangible. The blessing is just, well, a way to keep them on the right track afterward."

"And if what they need is sex?" Crowley knows what he's heard – that nobody's ever even seen ‘the Priest' naked, that he doesn't involve himself like that – but he's driven to ask, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Aziraphale frowns. "If you mean penetration, there are plenty of ways to accomplish that. I prefer to keep my head during the proceedings."

With a snort of laughter, Crowley echoes, "The proceedings. You can call it ‘the proceedings' but I can't call it – yeah. Never mind." He changes tack quickly when Aziraphale's fists clench. "Well, what about me, angel? You haven't offered _me_ your preferred kind of therapy. Poor, wretched little demon, me. I'm sure I need some." He trails a hand down his stomach to trace his hip, rubbing his thumb invitingly over tight denim.

It's satisfying to watch Aziraphale's mouth drop open in a tiny ‘oh' of surprise. It's less satisfying the way he looks Crowley up and down, purses his lips and shakes his head, as if disapproving of what he sees.

"What, you don't think I can take it?" Crowley snaps, suddenly irritated. He positively _slithers_ to the floor, on hands and knees, staring up at the angel's face as he crawls the few paces separating them. His movements are inhumanly serpentine and, as he's been told before, irresistibly enticing. "Or you don't think I can be obedient." He lays his cheek on Aziraphale's knee, nuzzling at the warm leather. It smells of oil. Aziraphale hasn't broken eye contact since he hit the floor.

As Crowley turns his head to mouth at Aziraphale's thick thigh, he's stopped by a firm grip on his jaw, tilting his chin upward and exposing his neck. Heat roils up in his belly as Aziraphale studies him. He had only meant to tease, to tempt, to be a little bit of an asshole to the angel, but he's struck off-guard by how much that look strips him bare and leaves him aching.

"It's not about taking anything." For a heartbeat, Crowley can't remember what Aziraphale is talking about. "Nor, necessarily, obedience." Crowley sucks in a startled breath as the fingers tighten on his jaw, his hands coming up to clutch at Aziraphale's knees for balance. What is going on? Is Aziraphale taking his proposal seriously? Crowley expected to be shoved away, but he can't decide what he wants now. To pull back and preserve his dignity, or to keep following the chocolate-rich curl of temptation, just to see where it will take him.

"Then... what?" he finds himself asking. He finds himself _trembling_, hands unsteady, and that will never do – _bloody weakness!_ – but he can't seem to help himself.

"It's about what you need to feel whole." Aziraphale carefully observes his reaction, and Crowley doesn't know what the angel is seeing but he can't speak. After a moment, Aziraphale nods and releases him, only to slide that same hand softly into Crowley's hair. It's far too gentle, and without thinking, Crowley shoves his head up into the touch to demand harder contact.

The smile that spreads across Aziraphale's face then is not innocent, not at all. It's positively _wicked_, dripping anticipation and filthy ideas.

Aziraphale looks around, at the attention they've caught from their fellow clubgoers, and stands abruptly. Crowley has to scramble backwards to avoid being knocked about by his knees.

"Not here," Aziraphale says. Crowley squints up at him, uncomprehending. "Upstairs."

Upstairs. The private rooms?

Oh.

_Oh_.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a sequel planned, don't worry. I don't write quickly, but feel free to subscribe to my AO3 for future works. You can find me on [Tumblr](http://mevima.tumblr.com), too.


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